And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,
But mock’d all tune, and marr’d the dancer’s skill,
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 250
Alike all ages: dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze;
And the gay grandsire, skill’d in gestic lore,
Has frisk’d beneath the burthen of threescore.
So blest a life these thoughtless realms display; 255
Thus idly busy rolls their world away.